Soundly
by adamantly
Summary: Five times John caught Sherlock sleeping, and the one time he joined him. Johnlock.


For the kink meme! Enjoy.

* * *

_i. at his desk_

John's never actually seen Sherlock sleep or even get ready for bed for that matter. He's always in bed before Sherlock, and the man is always lurking in that impeccable tailored suit in the wee hours of the morning as John, bleary-eyed, stumbles his way to the kitchen for breakfast.

Of course, he's seen Sherlock lounge around in pyjamas and a housecoat many, many times. But sleep? Never.

So naturally, when John comes home from work that day, annoyed at overly meddlesome parents, he stops dead in his tracks because Sherlock looks like he's bloody well gotten himself unconscious.

It takes an embarrassingly long moment for John to actually realize that Sherlock's just passed out cold at his desk, his laptop projecting an obnoxious screen saver.

It can't be comfortable, John thinks. Sherlock's sitting straight up, head lolling toward his left shoulder and slack-jawed in a way that nearly leaves John in pieces.  
John's nearly certain if he waits long enough, Sherlock will drool.

He debates moving him. Experience reminds John of the horrid crick in his neck he's certain Sherlock will have if he stays there too long. But the man rarely sleeps as it is, John doesn't want to accidentally wake him.

He can deal with Sherlock's complaints later if it means he can get some rest.

* * *

_ii. on the table_

The second time it happens, John wonders why Sherlock can't just go to bed when he feels tired instead of pushing himself until his body collapses.

Transport, he says. Moron, John thinks, rolling his eyes.

It's four thirty in the morning and John is more than a little bit irritated at being woken up to the sound of shattering glass coming from the kitchen.

With a long suffering sigh, associated with wives about to kill their husbands, John clicks the safety back on his gun and tucks it away into the drawer because no, it's not some idiot burglar intent on robbing the wrong flat, it's Sherlock's bloody hand knocking over an Erlenmeyer flask, whose contents are currently burning through the tile.

Sherlock is sprawled ungracefully across the kitchen table, his head tucked sideways into his left arm while the right swings idly by his side. His face is the picture of cherub innocence and John wants to punch him and kiss him all at once.

Regardless, nudges at Sherlock's shoulder until he's sleepily blinking up at him with bloodshot eyes with all the trust in the world.

Mindful of the now sizzling acid, John leads Sherlock by the elbow as he stumbles to the couch, where he promptly curls in on himself and falls dead asleep.

Smiling despite himself, John covers him with a blanket before tending to the mess in the kitchen.

* * *

_ iii. in Lestrade's chair_

Sherlock tends to forget that with cases comes a massive amount of paperwork.

It's a late, they've been working on the case for nearly thirty-six hours and John swears he hasn't been this tired since medical school.

At least he managed to squeeze a few power naps in –Sherlock hasn't slept at all, and John has a sneaking suspicion it's been longer than thirty-six hours for him.

So honestly, when John storms through the building in that well composed manner of his, ready to rip Sherlock a new one. He really shouldn't be as surprised as he is when he finds Sherlock in Lestrade's chair with his feet perched on the desk like some kind of primadonna, obviously and uselessly trying to avoid paperwork and consequently, and completely dead to the world and snoring softly in that way that he vehemently denies when John brings it up.

Annoyance dissipating almost completely, John throws his coat over him, giving him thirty minutes of rest.

John leaves to grab coffee for three. Dimmock will find him eventually and John wants to make sure they're all in marginally better moods by then.

* * *

_ iv. in the cab_

Nights spent careening through London isn't how John thought he would spend his adult years, but he isn't complaining.

Thought John doubts there's much that could beat the euphoria of adrenaline rushing through his veins when he does the equivalent of stupid teenager shit with Sherlock, but he's fairly certain the quiet, peaceful times he shares with him make John equally happy in an entirely different sense.

So, on the cab ride back to Baker Street after a late night of trying-to-hound-a-thief, two-am Chinese food runs and breathless, giddy kisses in alleyways because so what if they lost track of the thief, there will be other opportunities, of course; John remembers how far gone he is when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock's dozing lightly, but leaning heavily against John's shoulder with an arm curled around his own, fingers loosely twined together.

To this day, John can hardly believe that Sherlock Holmes turned out to be a bloody snuggler.

In this rare moment of tranquility, John presses a kiss to Sherlock's hair, snorting softly at the sniff that escapes him. He turns to look out the window, watching London rush passed them where time stands still.

* * *

_v. on his chair_

"Bored."

Wall. Smack. Catch.

"Bored."

Wall. Smack. Catch.

"Bored."

Ignore it.

Wall. Smack. "Ow, Sherlock, what the hell was that?"

The ball bounds off across the room in the opposite direction where it smacked John in the skull. "You were ignoring me."  
John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath because no, this is not happening to him; this thirty-two year old man did not just regress to bratty four-year old behaviour, no he did not.

That would be absurd.

Pushing down the urge to grab the ball and lobe it right back at him, John grabs two books off the shelf and makes his way over to where Sherlock is sprawled out across the couch with the measured movements of a soldier.

John's lips twitch as Sherlock's eyes widen comically; he's probably expecting a book to the head. Instead, John gestures for him to sit up.

The look Sherlock gives him then is absolutely priceless, but he obliges.  
John sits down, gently tugging Sherlock down by the shoulder so he can rest his head in John's lap. He places the book he chose for Sherlock on his chest and cracks his own open without a word.

Sherlock picks up the book and rolls his eyes. "Really, John? Why would you own an encyclopedia on bees?"

John doesn't miss the way Sherlock's eyes are glued to the page. "Deduce it."

Sherlock's too busy reading about the colony structure of honey bees to acknowledge him.

* * *

John doesn't remember when he started stroking Sherlock's hair, but the action must have put him to way the encyclopedia slips out of Sherlock's hands and crashes on his face leaves John in pieces at the indignant look on his face and Sherlock squawking like a ruffled bird.

* * *

_+ i. in john's bed_

John loves this.

He loves watching Sherlock's hole stretched tightly around his cock, fucking him slow, hard and deep. He loves the sight of Sherlock on all fours, head bowed below his neck, shoulders pulled up tightly like bat wings.

Panting, John bends over to mouth at those lovely shoulders, sucking a bruise to the pale expanse of skin drawn tightly over bone. Sherlock moans long and low, arms collapsing to lean on his elbows. He arches his back, pushing back against John's unrelenting thrusts, trying to orient himself in the right position for John to—

Sherlock keens, nearly falling out of his rhythm as John's cock drags directly over his prostate over and over. His hands clench tightly in the sheets uselessly. The bruising grip John has on his hips is the only thing tethering him to earth.

John throws his head back, groaning at the feel of Sherlock clenching oh-so deliciously around his cock. With a firm grip, John presses his cock as deep into Sherlock's tight arse as it'll go, grinding into that all-encompassing heat.

Sherlock is utterly wrecked underneath him, John thinks through the haze of impending orgasm. The shock of curly black hair sprawled out over the white pillow, the slight sheen of sweat at his temples; the usually piercing gaze so bright and unfocused is the most beautiful fucking thing John has ever seen.

John starts fucking into him again, watching Sherlock's jaw slack, the long unending moan punctuated by each snap of John's hips.

He curls an arm around Sherlock's chest, drawing the man up to his chest like he can tuck him away and keep him from the world. He watches Sherlock's eyes widen, no doubt at the sensation of John's cock feeling larger at this angle.

He turns his head for a messy kiss—all tongue and lip before Sherlock just leans his head back against John's shoulder trying to survive the ride.  
"Play with yourself," John whispers hotly against his ear, voice taking on an echo of authority that leaves Sherlock weak in the knees. Sherlock whimpers, hand reaching blindly for  
his cock. "I want to see you come."

Sherlock fists himself hard, erratically in time with John's thrusts. He teeters on the edge for an age before John sucks another bruise to the juncture between Sherlock's head and neck, and Sherlock's crashes into him, flaying him as come spurts all over his chest, mind going refreshingly blank.

Light headed, Sherlock barely registers John changing his position. He finds himself on his back, pillow wedged beneath his lower back, one leg hooked around John's waist, the other over his shoulder.

John slides himself back into Sherlock's fucked open hole and keeps himself still until Sherlock comes back to him with a groan, thrusting weakly on John's cock.  
John rounds his back, fucking into Sherlock with a renewed drive, pounding him hard and deep, just the way Sherlock likes after he comes.

Sherlock drops his leg in favour of holding John as close to him as possible as he chases his orgasm.

John's lost in the haze—he's so close, it's unbearable; his abdominal muscles clenched so tight he might break and oh god he never wants it to end.

But then Sherlock, perfect, wonderful, brilliant Sherlock groans out, "mmm, John," low and sweet in his ear and John is lost. His orgasm rips through him as he chokes on a whimper wrapped around Sherlock's name like a prayer.

Coming down from the high, John presses a sleepy kiss to Sherlock's shoulder, indescribable warmth spreading in him at the equally sleepy chuckle he receives in return.  
He pulls out, over deliciously oversensitive and rolls onto his side in favour of gathering Sherlock close and shoving a knee between his legs.

They're covered in come, and Sherlock's already got it leaking out of him and they really do need a shower, but Sherlock's breathing is evening out and John does hate to disturb him, not when he looks so at ease.

John buries his face into the sweaty curls, drawing the blanket up around them. Exhaustion embraces him like a welcomed friend.


End file.
